


L'Incube

by iberiandoctor (jehane)



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, M/M, Prison Sex, Succubi & Incubi, Toulon Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 22:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10345875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: In the bagne, Jean Valjean receives a visitor.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> Ficlet for this year's Porn Battle! For esteliel's prompts _incubus, blasphemy, comfort_.

It should be no surprise that one of the bagne's most prevalent stories involved sexual congress with demons. 

After all, men imprisoned for months and years without setting eyes upon a woman might be forgiven if their lusts ran to the blasphemous.

And so they spoke in Toulon, almost-longingly, of _succubi_ : she-demons who donned female flesh in order to seduce the condemned. It was said these demons took to such desperate practices to get upon themselves a child conceived in sin, who would from birth be steeped in the ways of evil, and in this way stole pleasure from these hardened criminals as they lay in their unguarded slumber. 

In the bagne, prisoners slept chained together, side by side, upon hard wooden planks, barely enough space between them for the solitary comfort of their own hands... but that did not stop them from claiming they had been visited in the night by unwelcome callers. And if they spoke of lush curves, and soft skin, and filthy words of temptation filled with hell's own breath, surely that was only to be expected -- a product of over-active imaginations and unquiet desires.

The man known as Jean-le-Cric had neither imagination nor desire. He had been innocent of women when he was so unfortunately imprisoned, and unlike his fellows he had had little past plentitude with which to compare the penury of the present. His dreams were filled not with supple, white-breasted demon-women seeking to rob him of his chastity, but with escape.

Seen in this way, perhaps it was unsurprising that the demon who visited Jean was no demon-woman, but a demon- _man_.

Summer had come to Toulon, sultry and stifling. Jean had been imprisoned for nine years, had tried to escape twice before. He had been considering a third attempt just to feel a waft of fresh air on his cheek, to take a breath that did not carry the stink of the bagne. In the fetid nights he lay sweating between Brevet and young Philippe, confined by the press of his bed-mates' bodies and the rank smell of their unwashed skin.

It was on one such night that the visitation occurred. 

Jean had been dreaming of the day's events, as men lacking in imagination were wont to do. A day of mindless work fitting new bricks into a ruined section of the sea wall, hours of labour against the backdrop of the ocean, under the relentless sun. A brief respite when the guards brought them water -- and here was Javert, the young guard who treated the prisoners less cruelly than the others. In the dream, Javert's eyes were very green, and as he stooped to hand the cup to one of the others, Jean noticed that the top of his mouth curved like a bow. 

Javert saw Jean looking at him, and the green eyes narrowed with a cunning Jean had never noticed before.

"Come with me," Javert told him and took his hand, which wasn't something that had happened that day, but which Jean kept dreaming of nonetheless.

"Where are we going?" Jean wanted to know, as his shackles fell to the ground and he let Javert lead him away from the other prisoners.

The guard cast a hard, meaningful look at him. "You dream of escape, don't you? I'm here to see to that dream, at least for a while."

Jean wondered what this Javert was truly after. Wondered if this was really Javert, after all, or just a dream of him, a fantasy dressed in imagined compassion and even more imagined interest. 

This Javert led him by the hand to the salle where the prisoners slept. At this hour the salle was deserted, the benches empty of the usual restless bodies, the walls quiet with days-old sweat.

Jean lay down upon the bench, and Javert lay beside him, pressed as close as Philippe would have been, so close he could not help but hear the thunder of Jean's hammering heart.

Impossibly, night began to gather. Javert's eyes flashed in the eerie darkness. He slid his hands under Jean's ragged smock; his fingers plucked at Jean's nipples as if they were bowstrings. The curve of his mouth was like nothing human. 

"You aren't him," Jean muttered, with a stab of fear. Still the dream held him, and he did not awaken. "God have mercy. You aren't --"

"Shh." The fingers moved down and downward, drawing lazy circles into the sheen of sweat upon his body. Jean felt himself stiffening under his smock, felt his thighs tremble as his prick roused itself to shy life after so many years of drought. 

The dream pressed its mouth to Jean's, the kiss hot and lush and inhuman. Against Jean's lips, it murmured, "You want him, though, and that's enough for me."

"What are you doing to me?" But Jean knew very well what it was doing. He might be innocent of women, but no one could be entirely innocent in the bagne, not in the company of its desperate men.

This dream of Javert spoke as simply as Javert himself might have. It curved one hand against Jean's cheek; the other curled around Jean's erect cock and began to stroke. "What you wish for. Anything that you wish for."

Jean gasped and breathed in air that was not from the bagne's bowels. In Javert's eyes he could see the wide green forests of his home. 

"Yes," he found himself saying, his breaths coming in pants as pleasure was wrung from his weary body. "Everything. Like that. Yes."

The dream -- the demon -- who wore Javert's face kissed him again. With its relentless clasp it drove Jean closer and closer to the edge of himself, toward the slowly-gathering cusp of his completion. 

"You dream of freedom?" it whispered. Its tongue travelled from Jean's mouth to his collarbone, traced the hair that gathered under his navel, and moved still lower. "Then let me free you."

And for one shining moment, Jean was indeed free -- of the hell that was the bagne, of the prison of his body -- held fast in the arms of the demon, who had made him think of the kindness of the young guard and of his home. 

He woke to the stagnant salle and his bed-mates, and daybreak. 

The stories were true after all: the incubus had stolen his seed, had swallowed every drop, and licked him clean.

Jean found he wasn't especially surprised. Women had no use for him, and demon-women seemed no exception. 

He wondered if the incubus would visit again. If so, Jean-le-Cric would be waiting; after all, he had many more years to serve in Toulon.


End file.
